


Teamwork

by Gourmet



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Bodily Fluids, Bondage, Choking, Consensual Sex, Double Penetration, Gangbang, M/M, Multi, Power Play, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 12:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2308946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gourmet/pseuds/Gourmet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It had taken some convincing. Mostly insisting that this was wanted. Needed, even. They were all too tense, too overworked. They didn’t have legions of troops to be sent out at a moment’s notice the way the Decepticons did. Their team was small. Every victory was fought hard for and every failure weighed heavy over them."</p><p>AKA Team Prime gangbangs Smokescreen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teamwork

**Author's Note:**

> written entirely based on [this](http://skymachine.tumblr.com/post/96797323551/holds-face-up-to-microphone-heres-what-i-ship) post by tumblr user [skymachine](http://skymachine.tumblr.com). yeah, i don't have a better explanation than that. originally posted [here](http://snowfellafterdark.tumblr.com/post/97547791385/skymachine-holds-face-up-to-microphone-heres).

It had taken some convincing. Mostly insisting that this was wanted. _Needed_ , even. They were all too tense, too overworked. They didn’t have legions of troops to be sent out at a moment’s notice the way the Decepticons did. Their team was small. Every victory was fought hard for and every failure weighed heavy over them. It was growing increasingly rare that they had time to wind down from the constant pressure of battles and hunts. Even more so that those fleeting spells for relaxation could be spent out of the prying eyes of their human teammates. Intimacies were few and far between, stolen between friends and comrades in quick, halfhearted frags or carved out of the precious breems they could dedicate to recharge. It left the base high strung and the mounting tension was nearly thick enough to clog vents.

So yes, it had taken some convincing. But perhaps not so much as it would have under other circumstances. Consent was given. Safety measures put in place. And even Ultra Magnus’s strict demand for rules and order were appeased by an explanation of team building and morale boosting. It was obvious after certain missions that there was still fragmentation among the group - too many new ‘bots with too little time to connect, to meld into something fully compatible. They needed this, as much for their personal well-being as their professional efficiency.

Not, of course, that Smokescreen cared about any of that slag now.

What he cared about was relaxing his intake enough to let Ratchet press his spike further in. It wasn’t particularly long, but the girth suited the boxy shape of Ratchet’s frame, and his intake spasmed as soon as the bulbous head pressed in. Arcee’s spike had been easier to take.

Thankfully, the medic didn’t seem particularly surprised or perturbed by his trouble. He reached down, cupping his helm and dragging a thumb along the edge of his crest when a garbled noise escaped Smokescreen’s vocalizer. “Easy does it. Quit fighting and it’ll adjust,” he said gruffly.

Smokescreen vented hard and struggled to focus enough to do so. As soon as he’d gotten his intake to quit trying to expunge the intruder, however, there was a jerking around his throat, and he gagged, leaning quickly back with the pull and slipping Ratchet’s spike back out.

"Wheeljack!" Ratchet snapped, scowling. He reached over and grabbed the lead from the chuckling ex-Wrecker.

"Sorry, Doc. I didn’t mean to tug that hard," he offered, smirking despite the heavy edge of static in his voice. "Little distracted over here," he pointed out, rocking his hips, and Smokescreen whined when that pushed him up back against his ceiling node.

Ratchet huffed out through his vents, helping his cooling fans along, and he wrapped the lead around his servo. A lighter tug had Smokescreen leaning forward again, following the pressure from the heavy collar around his neck. He opened his mouth when Ratchet rubbed the head of his spike against his lipplates and shouted around it when Wheeljack rocked his hips again.

"All right, Bulk. I think we’re good," Wheeljack murmured, leaning forward and dragging his dentae across one of Smokescreen’s shoulder guards when his valve rippled, calipers cycling briefly.

The massive mech behind him shifted, and Smokescreen shuddered hard enough to rattle his armor, moaning around Ratchet’s spike when he regained their lost progress and began pressing back into his intake. Bulkhead adjusted the hold he had on Smokescreen’s thighs and rolled his hips, fingers tightening on his plating.

"Oooh, frag, Jackie," Bulkhead groaned, kneading his fingers against Smokescreen’s thighs when the smaller ‘bot whimpered around Ratchet’s spike. He and Wheeljack settled into an easy, familiar rhythm, alternating thrusts in and out of Smokescreen’s grasping valve. "H-Heh, this takes me back."

Wheeljack bit down on Smokescreen’s shoulder guard, leaving a dent behind, and he chuckled huskily against the hot plating. “Oh, yeah. Remember how, _nnng_ , how Seaspray used to…?”

"Hah! Oh, yeah," Bulkhead purred at the memory, thrusting harder, and Wheeljack easily followed his lead.

Smokescreen moaned loudly between them, oral solvent dribbling out the corner of his mouth, glossa pinned by the girth of Rathet’s spike as it eased its way deeper. When his lipplates reached the base, Ratchet rumbled his pleasure and cupped the back of his helm. “Good boy,” he murmured, smoothing his palm up over the curve of his helm and tweaking the point of his crest. Smokescreen’s intake clutched when he shivered before relaxing again, and he offlined his optics.

"Byuh bup bup," he tittered, pulling on the lead until Smokescreen made a quieter, choking sound around him. "Online those optics."

Smokescreen obeyed, onlining them dimly and peering up at Ratchet when the lead was tugged again. “Better,” Ratchet said, nodding shortly before starting to rock, shallow thrusts that dragged against his intake, and it was an effort not to gag around the intrusion. Even more so when Ratchet’s shallow thrusts were completely out of sync with the hard, rapid rhythm Wheeljack and Bulkhead were following.

There was prefluid leaking down his spike, dripping down to join the mess of his own lubricant pooling over Bulkhead and Wheeljack’s thighs. But it continued to go ignored, and when Wheeljack slipped a servo between them, it was to scrape his thumb roughly over the swollen external node above his over-stretched valve. He hadn’t realized how close he was until he was thrashing through an overload (how many was that now?), vocalizer spitting static that garbled around Ratchet’s spike.

The vibrations seemed to be enough to push their medic over as well, because he rocked his hips twice more before jetting transfluid down Smokescreen’s intake. Smokescreen twitched and dug his fingers into his palms where they were cuffed behind his back, struggling to cycle his intake enough to take the flood of fluid. Despite his best efforts, however, he still coughed some up when Ratchet slid out, automatically fighting to clear the rest of his intake when the largest intrusion receded. It left a sticky mix of oral solvent and transfluid splattering down his chin and onto his chestplates.

Ratchet sighed through his vents and petted his servo over Smokescreen’s helm. “I needed that,” he murmured, patting his servo heavily again and adding, absently, “Good boy,” as he turned around and held the lead out.

"All right, that’s enough from you two. Get over here," he demanded. He was still CMO of this team, after all, and therefore the only one with the authority to order around their superiors. And he was never above using that authority when necessary.

When Bee stepped up, Ratchet passed the lead off to him and stepped forward to wrangle in their commanding officers. Bee glanced over his shoulder before chirping, amused, and the curve of his facemask retracted enough to bare his rarely seen mouth so he could crush it against Smokescreen’s.

"C’mon!" Wheeljack called, rubbing his thumb against the sensitive node under it again until Smokescreen yelped into Bee’s mouth. "I bet we can fit one more in here," he drawled with a pointed thrust that had Bulkhead moaning and Smokescreen’s valve clenching hard around them.

Smokescreen panted through his mouth when Bee pulled back, struggling to cycle more air in through his overworked vents, but when the yellow mech’s panel snapped back, he groaned and ducked his head. “B-Bee,” he gasped, voice static-laden, and he leaned forward what he was able, dropping his mouth a little further open to invite him in.

Across the way, Optimus smiled faintly and held his hands up against Ratchet’s verbal threats, moving to join them when the medic pushed he and Ultra Magnus forward before settling down beside Arcee to watch. Ever concerned for his team’s well-being, Optimus moved up alongside Bee and reached down, laying a servo against Smokescreen’s helm. “You are all right?”

"Y- _yaa!_ -Yes, sir!” Smokescream hissed when Bulkhead curled his arms around his thighs and pulled him down, guiding his hips in small, grinding circles against the ex-Wreckers’s spikes.

Optimus nodded slightly before reaching over and calmly taking the end of the lead from Bee’s hand, wrapping his own around it and giving a sharper tug than Ratchet had, forcing Smokescreen to lean after the pull.

"Very well," Optimus rumbled, reaching down to hook a thick finger under the collar, the extra width of it tightening the strip to a near-choking degree. "Bumblebee?"

The scout beeped eagerly and shifted, guiding his spike into Smokescreen’s readily waiting mouth. And when he closed his lipplates around them and sucked in earnest, Bee trilled and rocked his hips, only shifting to the side when Optimus arranged himself alongside him and retracted his own panel to let his…much larger spike pressurize.

Smokescreen’s optics spiraled wide when he spotted it, and he sucked harder on Bee’s spike until Optimus brought his free servo up. He stroked his fingers gently against his jaw before pushing a large thumb into Smokescreen’s mouth alongside Bee’s spike, forcing it open again. And when he realized what their leader’s intentions were, Smokescreen whined and opened his mouth wide. Even then, when Optimus pressed forward, it wasn’t quite enough. Despite his slighter build, Bee’s spike wasn’t exactly small, so to fit in alongside it, Optimus tightened his grip on the collar to hold him in place and applied more pressure with his thumb, forcing Smokescreen’s jaw open past the point of comfort, unconcerned with how badly he’d begun drooling over his fingers.

"Ah, there we are," Optimus sighed when, with a bit more shifting between them, he and Bee were able to make enough room for both of them between Smokescreen’s lipplates.

With his mouth stretched open as wide as it was, he couldn’t exactly suck, but he tried, swirling his glossa between them and shivering when a pair of engines revved loudly back at him for his efforts.

"Mmm, looks like they’re all full up top. Better get down here with us," Wheeljack said when he spotted Ultra Magnus hovering just out of arm’s reach. If he wasn’t bearings deep in their quivering, warbling rookie, Wheeljack might have had half a processor to think the other mech looked…cute. Also, if that mech wasn’t Ultra magnus. But there was something almost endearing about the insufferable aft when he was forcibly not-fidgeting as he lingered awkwardly around them. Anyone in the base could hear his cooling fans churning, but there wasn’t exactly any set list of protocols Wheeljack was familiar with on how to participate on a group fragging among your subordinates, so maybe that was throwing him off.

Thankfully, Bulkhead was still as in-tune with him as ever, and he shifted. “Here, Jackie, take his other leg,” he said, and Wheeljack curled a servo under one of Smokescreen’s knee joints, pulling it a little further out and purring his engine when the smaller mech twitched. “Sir?” Bulkhead continued, dark optics spotting Ultra Magnus, and he shifted again, pointedly, adjusting in the space he was taking up and sliding his grip down to Smokescreen’s other knee to ensure they could make room for another.

A few kliks passed, and Wheeljack kept up a lazier rhythm for them, grinding friction between their spikes and keeping that valve twitching around them. When Ultra Magnust _finally_ walked over, it was with slow steps, and he frowned as he lowered himself to the floor, glancing up when Smokescreen whimpered threadily around his mouthful.

"Hush," Optimus ordered overhead, tugging on the collar and forcing Smokescreen’s helm a little further down, and, coincidentally, his mouth a little further down their spikes.

"He’ll ping Ratchet if he wants us to stop. Uh, sir," Bulkhead pointed out when Ultra Magnus continued to hesitate, and after some great reluctance, he slid his panel back. Wheeljack let out an appreciative whistle when his spike pressurized.

Bee chirruped again and reached up to stroke Smokescreen’s helm while Bulkhead adjusted his grip and pulled the rookie’s leg up. Smokescreen arched a little and groaned when the limb was shifted, pulled high and back out of the way, far enough to give Magnus room to slide in closer and far enough to start a burn in the joints where his thigh met the rest of his pelvic array.

It was a lower, almost-uneasy sound that escaped him when the head of a third and, oh Primus, massive spike nudged against the already stretched folds of his valve.

Bulkhead curled a little closer, putting his mouth against his audial receptor despite the odd angle he was bent at with Optimus’s tugging. “Just relax. We’ll take care of ya,” he insisted before curling his free hand around his middle to hold him steady. At some point, Wheeljack had snuck a digit into the seams on the underside of his other knee and was stroking the wires there to the same tempo he was circling his external node with. It was all very pleasant and very distracting.

Right up until he was pulled down onto that third spike.

His fingers scrabbled slightly against Bulkhead’s plating behind him and he hissed static around the spikes gagging him, hiccoughing when the head popped in past the rim with an obscenely slick, sucking sound. They stilled, and he was nearly overwhelmed by the stretch, calipers spasming as they alternated between trying to force the new intrusion out and readjusting to suit the size of it. With his valve fighting to accommodate the addition, Smokescreen didn’t realize Ultra Magnus had reached up until deft fingers found and dipped into one of his transformation seams, stroking and pinching and sending forth a new spurt of lubricant that helped them inch him further down.

By the time he was seated on all three of them, Smokescreen was, well, a little delirious with the sensation. His optics had dropped to a dim glow, and he was only vaguely, detachedly, aware of anything outside of the stretch in his valve. The overwhelming _fullness_. Bulkhead’s servo slid out across his abdominal plating and he realized, albeit sluggishly, that it was sitting oddly, somewhat distended with how much his frame was holding. It took a few sharp tweaks to his crest before he realized he still had spikes to service, and he pushed his glossa up, sloppily, between them.

There wasn’t really a rhythm all three mechs stuffed inside of him could settle into, even with all of Bulkhead and Wheeljack’s practice, so they improvised. After some adjusting, Bulkhead pulled Smokescreen’s leg an aching touch higher until it could be settled over - well, against, really - Ultra Magnus’s shoulder. And with his hands servos free, he slid them both under Smokescreen’s aft and lifted him. Gravity was enough to bring him back down.

And every sensor node and cluster in his valve lit up like an energon mine under fire. There was nothing in him left untouched, friction and charge dragging over the stretched lining and every sensitive point against it. Warnings popped up across his HUD and were ignored. He redoubled his efforts on Optimus and Bee’s spikes, lapping and suckling almost frantically as he was lifted and pulled down again. The second time he tried to cry out, but his vocalizer cut and reset midway through the noise.

It was also enough encouragement for Bulkhead to move his grip up to his hips, digging his fingers into his plating where he was able to pump him faster over their spikes. Even Ultra Magnus groaned that time, and Wheeljack surged up as well he could to catch their commanding officer’s mouth in a biting kiss, swallowing subsequent sounds from him.

Smokescreen couldn’t cycle air fast enough. Wheeljack’s fingers dug particularly hard into a sensitive joint and his valve spasmed around them. He could feel their combined girth pressing hard enough into the lining to extend his protoform, gaping his armor slightly at the front. A vent stalled. Someone bucked an inch further into his mouth and flooded it with transfluid, and there was more of that leaking out between the spikes and over his lipplates than there was getting into his intake.

Bulkhead lifted him up, almost pulling him off, leaving just the rim of his valve stretched beyond any capacity it had ever held before. And when he was jerked back down, he bowed his backstruts, his other vent stalling as he rocked into overload. He couldn’t cycle air, and even if his mouth weren’t full of spike and transfluid, the collar was effectively cutting off anything his intake could have pulled in. The HUD warnings multiplied as pleasure ripped across his sensor net, almost painful in its intensity, and his system was forcibly offlined when the input and heat became too much.

When his system rebooted and he came back online, the first thing he was aware of was the echo of pleasure still singing across his network, leaving him disoriented and effectively distracted. Or, at the very least, it left him largely unconcerned with the absolute wreck he was slowly starting to realize he was. The tang of transfluid was still strong on his glossa, and his chin and cheeks were slick with it - and that said nothing for what had poured onto his chestplates. And it said even less for the mess between his thighs.

There were hands all over him, kneading out sore joints and moving him, carefully, off of Wheeljack, Bulkhead, and Ultra Magnus. But without their spikes to keep it in, the transfluid of three large mechs and his own flood of lubricant was left to pour back out of his valve, sluicing in hot spurts down his thighs as his aching calipers cycled and readjusted, forcing more fluid out as they clamped and softened back into place. But it was a gradual process, leaving his wet valve gaping almost as badly as his mouth as he panted.

"Good show, kid," Arcee commented, moving with Ratchet and Bee to help the other three onto their pedes. Smokescreen managed to smile, lopsidedly at best, while his vocalizer slowly rebooted, but he was grateful to be tugged into the larger mech holding him upright. Optimus, he realized a little belatedly, pressing his helm against his chest when he was pulled that way, soothed by the thrum of a strong spark and the stronger Matrix beneath the plating he leaned into.

The hands on him were gentle, and he felt another mech step up behind him, unfastening the collar around his neck, and he recognized the warm stroke of Ratchet’s servo over the back of his helm.

Someone commented on getting cleaned up, and another voice, Wheeljack’s he thought, said…something. It earned a laugh from Bulkhead, at any rate, and even a half-chuckle from Ratchet. It wasn’t important, though. What was important was the warmth that had fallen over the base as they rearranged themselves and moved, as a unit, to the washracks. Undoubtedly to take turns cleaning themselves and each other. There were no guarantees beyond this point, but for now, they were one unit, functioning in harmony and a renewed, strengthened sense of companionship.

And as great as that was, Smokescreen was in recharge before the transfluid had even been wiped from his plating.

**Author's Note:**

>  **WARNING** : someone left a very silly comment below here and, being kind of a dick, i replied with sarcasm. and then i followed that sarcasm with a short snippet to help this person recognize the difference between consensual themes in BDSM and petplay VS rape. so please mind that the comment below includes talk of rape, violence, slut-shaming and blatant misogyny. and my response includes a mini ficbit that actually depicts rape, derogatory language, choking, and fisting.


End file.
